


theres one season im always feeling

by imperiality (orphan_account)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, It's pretty poetic, Maybe a bit OOC because of it, Prose Poem, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 13:48:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12532932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/imperiality
Summary: What are all these flowers doing on Lance's terrace? He better go investigate.





	theres one season im always feeling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [strawberrylovely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrylovely/gifts).



He thinks he likes this spring time thing. Ahh, he can feel it wrap its arms around his, lay its head over is, likes when it serenades him to sleep. Coddles him awake.

Lance thinks he likes the way the sidewalks look in the spring. They’re littered with joy and new life and fast beginnings. _Let it fall._

Rebirth is fast and fleeting and beautiful and Lance likes it. He likes that he can be able to walk out of his apartment and see invisible summonings of changing tides right outside his door. He likes the spring colors the most. Spring smells the most. Spring flowers the most.

Spring him the most.

He likes how sex and fervor are finally something smiled upon in the spring. (He kinda wants to join in.) Spontaneity, fickleness, they all flutter and inflate in and around him falling to his feet. That he can pick it up off the ground is his greatest joy of all. He likes the beauty of the gentle mystery. Lance never knows what new life he’s going to hold in his hand next.

Some days still act like winter. Some afternoons feel like summer. When the clouds chase him inside, he can’t help but feel like fall is already chasing spring _away_. 

He doesn’t like that.

Lance wants to be able to savor his spring time. He wants to savor the rose and the honeysuckle and the cherry blossoms that he can smell all the way down his throat. He wants to be able to pick up their petals and press them in his journal. He wants to save their stories. (He thinks he can save their lives.)

He doesn’t like how the weather keeps vacillating. What the hell is he supposed to wear on any given day? It’s beyond Lance if the weather is supposed to care. But screw it. He’s going to put in his headphones and dance as he walks- regardless of if he feels the sunlight rising from him, or humidity gathering on him.

His allergies sometimes like to give him problems, but that’s not something a little pill can’t fix.

Now at first, he doesn’t really know what to do will all the flower petals on his terrace. They’re pretty. They’re lovely. They’re still fragrant? They look like they’re just begging to be photographed.

They get swept up and thrown in his garbage can for the first few days. He can’t be expected to press and reminisce about all the life he comes across. A few sacrifices have to be made.

(He really doesn’t like how the rotting petals remind him of his mother’s lullabies.)

The next few days come and pass. They pass some more. He doesn’t dare slide the terrace door open, lest the accumulating petals spill onto his living room floor. He tries to let the rain will the petals away. Sadly, the rain’s will is not his own.

Those days come and pass the same.

A new day dawns, and Lance finally resolutes. He marches out to his sliding door, tears it to the side, and whips his chin up. The breeze pushes the falling petals to the side, but he can clearly see now their fiendish owner.

From just one level up and one apartment to the side, butterfly bush and lilac petals all cascade to his stoop. Primrose of all different colors torrent down from his neighbors window, too. A few stray rose and daisy petals float down like weightless paper in the mix as well. When they all settle, they rearrange to make themselves comfortable.

He doesn’t like that, either.

But the petals, they. They just keep falling. And Lance. He just keeps staring. 

And staring.

And staring.

When enough staring passes and enough flower-smelling starts to get to him, he tip-toes over the petals and _i n c h e s_ his door closed as softly as he can. He can’t risk all those fallen petals getting anywhere on his carpet. Or the pollen. Or the dust.

He doesn’t think to get anything but his wits when he leaves his apartment. Simply storming up to his carless neighbor’s door, he doesn’t even think of what to say to them.

Perhaps a simple, “hey wrangle your petals” will be enough. Or perhaps a “put a leash on your horticulture” will be sure to charm them. Wait. That was a stupid thought. He’s Lance; he’s going to charm them regardless.

He reaches the door and knocks with 4 sharp raps. He hears nothing, not even footsteps to  ignore his knock so he waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Until finally he gets sick of that and decides to knock again. Before he can let his knuckles land a third time, he hears a feminine _be right with you!_ and hurried steps to the door.

When the woman opens the door, he looks down at her face. His first thought has to do with spring. With the way her eyes twinkle with the promise of new day on dawning grass shoots. With the way her skin beckons to be held like rich earth. With the way her lips insinuate like the curves of an orchid’s petal, he thinks _she is spring._

Then he thinks, speaking of flowers…

Then, with the tilt of her head and the lift of her eyebrow and the stretch of her hand, he thinks _if she’s right by me I promise to do no more wrong._

She beats him to the punch with a gentle smile, inquiring of his intent.

Well Lance can no longer say he’s bloody sick of the flower petals, so he asks instead if she’s _running a nursery up here!_ And uh, apparently she is. Actually. So he says oh. Yeah?

“Yes!”

And if he thought he was going with her eyes, he is _gone_ by her voice. (Maybe she’ll let him come back next spring.)

Alas, she doesn’t. She continues by explaining that she works at a flower shop. That all the flower pots and vases are filled with plants given to her from work, or by flowers she’s wanted to redeem. 

“I guess you can say I’ve brought quite a bit of my work home!”

Yeah. Yeah, Lance could say that. He also wants to say quite a number of other things too, but has learned from shameful flirting of days past that silence breeds wisdom. He holds his tongue. _But he doesn’t want to leave just yet!_ So he lets something more reasonable come out of his mouth.

“Where do you work?”

And this woman literally works at the flower shop not two blocks away. It’s a miracle that he hasn’t _already_ seen her. Ah, but she doesn’t blame him. Technically they haven’t opened yet so he’s still got time.

(But his mamá told him tomorrow is never promised. He has to make the most of today, of every today. For, what if tomorrow never comes?)

Lance settles for, “maybe I’ll swing by sometime.”

“Well great! We’d love to see you there.”

And he almost agrees for her. He almost turns around, nary a care in the world. He almost leaves without saying what he actually knocked on her door for. Before she can close her door, he gestures to the various flowers and greenery oozing around her apartment before saying,

“Actually…” damn. Tact was never for him. “The uh… the flower petals they’re…” (Not promised tomorrow, dude.) “When I go out to my terrace I’m swimming in them,” he laughs awkwardly.

Her face twists and widens and it makes him wish he never even brought it up. Poor woman probably didn’t even think about it. Her apologies are profuse and plentiful. She gives apology after apology, but she really can’t fight where the winds blow. _Her private smile is something he thinks he wants to join in on, later._ The flowers have a mind of their own! _Maybe he can work it out of her, somehow._ She can’t take them inside, those particular flowers she has out need all the sunlight they can get. She asks him to bear with him just a little bit longer.

Actually! 

He stops day dreaming in her spring-like eyes.

“How fortuitous you’ve only brought it to my attention just now. The shop opens in just a few days. There’s nothing I can do about them now, but I’ll appreciate your patience until I can move most of them to a better home. It’s just a few days, then you can enjoy your mess-free patio once again.”

And is Lance the biggest jerk or what. This isn’t even a big deal. At all. It’s not even a little deal. It’s no deal.

He has two arms to sweep with, he promises her. Man, he’s embarrassed he even came to her with such a petty problem. He wishes her felicitations to her shop before he leaves, and her smile is so warm so soft so gentle it challenges his molecular structure.

He doesn’t think it wise to stop by the flower shop at all.

So the first week after the shop’s grand opening, he drops by and picks one of the most expensive bouquets he can get his hands on. When he gets home, he puts them in the most lavish vases he has, unwraps the bow and paper and names the bouquet _Vera_. Cause. Primavera. 

And _no_. He doesn’t name his bouquet after his beautiful and completely out-of-his-league neighbor. No. That’s preposterous.

So preposterous, he can’t even think of why he keeps treating himself a random bouquet every week. Before he knows it, spring twirls her skirts closer to summer. Lance can hardly blame her for it.

The spring days keep getting warmer, Lance finds himself walking in puddles of petals now and His Neighbor the Florist is too elusive. Aside from their first meeting and at the flower shop, he hardly sees her. This spring is both a kiss on his collar and an omen. 

He wishes his neighbor would kiss him.

In compensation, he ups his once weekly flower shop visits to twice. Sometimes thrice in a single week. Sometimes he sees his neighbor, other times he doesn’t. Either way, none of the women there seem to mind his terrible flirting. (They haven’t thrown him out in any case.) 

His visits become so frequent he puts his wallet on a diet. When the woman is at the shop, he’ll buy himself something a little extra. When it’s the others, he’ll get himself just a single rose or a handful of baby’s breath. Something to spruce up his space.

Nearly a month and a half go by, and he still doesn’t know his neighbor’s name. It’s a problem that needs to be resolved immediately. With renewed passion he stomps to his favorite flower shop, fully expectant to see his favorite face. 

Amongst the flowers, the petals and the green stems he was not disappointed. At least in that sense. She still bests him though! getting him at the quick when she holds out her hand. She looks him in the eye and says,

“I’m Allura. Always good to see you again.”

“L-likewise.” He barely notices the other women barely masking their curiosity, bodily leaning into his and Allura’s conversation. “I’m Lance.”

“Lance. Nice to meet you! I know you stop in a lot, but I hardly see you at the complex. We keep missing each other!”

_A shame it really is._

“I’ve actually been meaning to give one of these to you, but never seemed to find the time. I’m now starting to believe more the idea of: if I can’t find the right moment, I’ll make it.” She crouches behind the counter. “So here you go!” And hands him a purple rose.

And it’s _beautiful._

“Free of charge!”

And it’s **free**?

Lance asks Allura if she’s really sure. He means, this is a _nice_ flower, he doesn’t want to take from the store or anything- but she quickly soothes him. Not to worry, she promises. _A silver halo still glows around her pale white hair._ It’s her flower anyway, silly. She brought it from home to give to Lance. _Her eyes like spring, hair like winter, skin like fall and laughter like summer. She is all and everything to to Lance, but will she too change with the season’s turn?_

“For me?”

Yes. Yes for him. And he has to make sure to take very good care of it. Be sure to enjoy it while it lasts.

And that. That he can do.

The purple rose gets a vase all to itself. He places it in the middle of his dining table, and takes some photos for posterities sake. (Maybe he puts some on social media. Maybe he doesn’t.)

One day while coming home from work, he finally remembers his manners. He should get her something in return for the beautiful flower! A week an a half later the rose is still going strong, so obviously the Blessed Virgin Mary and his mamà are both smiling down on him. For that reason alone he was obligated to return the favor. Returning the favor to a beautiful woman? Just icing on the cake.

Deciding on the right gift is what gives Lance the most fits. For all the women he’s seduced or flirted with he’s either given chocolates, poetry (of varying quality), or… flowers. He can’t give a florist flowers. Absolutely not. In the brief times he’s chit-chatted with her in the shop, she’s brought up that she’s a bit of a chocolate snob, so. That’s out. Which leaves poetry.

Poetry that doesn’t want to leave his hand.

For all his poetic-waxing he does internally, he can’t bring himself to put the pen to paper. Is it too embarrassing to him, he wonders. Maybe he’s scared of how Allura will react. It can’t be because he’s too meek to be so forward, that’s never stopped him before.

Allura is just. Different.

Different in the way that she charmed him without even _trying_. Her effortless charisma silences his loud posturing. Lance aspires to have Allura’s grace, genuineness. Her _beauty, her beauty her beauty._

Her focus he wants diverted to himself. _How can he make her eyes look that way towards him?_ He wants her mask-less confidence to wash over him. _He wants to be remade in her reassurance._ He wants her tact. He wants her touch. He wants her kiss.

Does he want _Allura,_ or does Lance want to _be_ her?

In the following days that he comes in to her shop, he fights to bolster coherent words. In greeting he begins, _hell-o ladies_ , a flirt he raises, _and hello Allura_ , a purchase he makes, _I’ll take these today,_ and a promise he bids: _I’ll repay you for that beautiful rose soon. I swear!_

And each day he leaves and returns, the cycle begins and repeats. He comes, he flirts, he buys, he swears and yet only 3 of 4 things are ever fulfilled. Allura wonders if he actually intends to make good of his word. Not that she’s demanding or even expecting repayment from Lance, but she hates empty promises. Lance has raised the stakes. He did it to himself.

Lance wonders if he’ll ever find a gift good enough to give to Allura. All of this usuals are completely discarded, and he’s completely at a loss. If it cant be chocolate, can’t be jewelry, can’t be poetry can’t be _flowers_ what can it be at all!

They all move into the second and a half mark of spring, and he’s still just as lost for a gift as the day he promised. In fact, he feels even more lost.

But every day like clock work, he stops into his favorite flower shop with a quip on his tongue and a promise in his breath. He found no other reason for his eyes to wander, cause he was fully satisfied staying in Allura’s orbit. He sees no reason to stray. The other ladies coo at him, shining their sweetest smiles and brining him in their gossip, and all of it only adds to the gravity. 

Every day like clock work he looks for the embodiment of his admiration and veneration. Either she waits for him by the counter, or glides to meet him from her flower-arranging. He _swears_ she walks so light, he wants to grab her shoulders and implore _what are you even_ walking _on_? He doesn’t, though. He keeps silent as he basks in her star, sun, moon light and smiles as she walks closer. He’s been foolish long enough.

Today she waits for him at the register, absently sipping at a coffee cup. She’s the perfect picture of serenity. Almost… listlessness until she catches his eye and stands up straighter to greet him. She waves to him, greets him the same as always and-

Wait.

Did he say coffee cup.

Allura. Coffee. Flower. _Flower_! This could be his chance! He honestly doesn’t know why he didn’t think of it before, a cup of coffee could be just what he needs.

Before Lance can give it much more though, Allura is quick to his mental gear-turning. She quickly voices it, warning him not to think of it anymore. There is no coffee in the cup. Only hot chocolate. Coffee would be a very poor choice for repayment of anything regarding Allura. Well… anything but vengeance. 

(He has to bite his tongue, literally physically this time. He wants to cry out _the only thing anyone would have vengeance at you about, is the way you steal their hearts._ The crying in his heart is doing him no good.)

Now coffee’s out… so what _would_ be good then, Lance reasons.

She likes tea.

Huh.

Now there’s an idea.

“I could take you to-“

“-Why don’t you come over tonight?”

There she goes again. Beating him. Once more. (He likes that a lot more than he wants to admit.)

Come… come over. To her apartment? Like for real?

She laughs tenderly at his expense, teasing him _he does remember where it is, yes?_

And he does. She can bet her britches he does.

And that’s just wonderful to Allura! She would be absolutely _charmed_ if he came over at 8:30. (He’s thinking she won’t be the only charmed one.) She promises to have a pot waiting to be brewed before he arrives. They can pick whichever tea they want after he gets there.

And that all sounds alright with Lance.

So when he gives his final goodbyes to the other women at the shop, he feels himself _vibrating_ the whole walk home. He thinks he’s walking on the same clouds Allura always does. (He wishes she'd share them more often.)

The stress of sprucing himself up for tea? Is something Lance thinks Allura could have spared him. He agonizes at button-ups over button ups. One is less wrinkly, but the other looks better with his skin. Does he wear a tie? And a blazer? When was the last time he even _wore_ a blazer?

Good grief, does he even still own one?

7pm whips right past him. He still only has his pants on. When 7:30 rolls around, he throws on his cleanest and brightest shirt. He hopes for the best. 8 comes. He still wants to do his hair, spritz on some cologne. Is cologne too much? Cologne shouldn’t be too much for a date with a woman like Allura. But… is it even a date? Oh God. He’s really hoping it is, he’s been long done with nonsense late-night "friend dates”. His heart can't take many more.

The stove clock reads 8:25, and he says screw it, grabs his keys phone and wallet and _books_ it to Allura’s door.

When she answers, he doesn’t even know why he bothered trying. She stands in the doorway with all the regality of a royal. She and her light hair, she and her rich skin, she and pinned hair and smart outfit, her gaze cuts right through him.

Lance’s heart is clay begging to be carved.

She waves him in (to save him from his mindless ogling, no doubt) and guides him to her dining room table. If he bothered to look anywhere from her face or lithe silhouette, her tasteful furnishings and tidy space would have further impressed on Lance. As it is, he can barely bring himself back down from the excitement of _tea._ With _Allura._

After she murmurs for him to _make himself comfortable,_ she slinks back into the kitchen. He waits by the table awkward, fidgeting. Uncomfortable. Ah, there she is again thank the Lord. She carries a tiered stand with both hands, setting it in the middle of the table. It’s stocked full with scones, tea cakes and wedding cookies. 

He jolts to her side to help her carry things in but she waves him away. _Comfortable, comfort! Make yourself at home_! she insists. He insists on helping. She shakes her head with a rainy smile, saying that Lance is her guest. There’s only a few things more. Now take a seat!

So he does.

After the pastries, Allura brings out a platter of finger sandwiches that Lance has no idea how to eat. They’re too cute to eat, anyway. He’ll just have some tea, stuff his face with cookies and be a heathen. Solid plan.

At last she brings out the tea pot. As she lays it on the table, he finally lets himself settle back in his chair. He thought that would be it. The pot should have been it- they have their hot water, they have goodies, she already set out the saucer and cups before he came. Why is she going back in the kitchen?

Ah. Yes. Hello. They’re having tea. Which would beg the necessity for tea. Bags. Lance has totally done this Tea Thing before.

She opens her box collection, and immediately the smells swarm in assault to Lance’s nose. He sniffs. She giggles. 

“Which one would you like? Feel free to smell any of them.”

His head hears “any of them” but his nerves tell him “all of them”. His hands compromise as he sifts through the whole collection, but only samples the back half of the assortment. Allura comments when his hands hover over the white pear bags,

“That one is my favorite. I love the smell and the aftertaste the best.”

Problem solved. He picks up the tea bag, hands it to her and wishes he reached his hand out farther just to brush hers. How would her callouses feel against his soft palms? Is her touch as electric as her glance?

_Tea time now. Those are all questions for another time._

Allura sets a timer to let the tea seep then gestures to the dainty sandwiches. She encourages him to eat while they wait for the tea. Now, normally he would love to dig in, but he just can’t seem to bring himself to. He gives her the high honor of having the first bite.

“Well alright then!”

Everything about Allura’s decor, her mannerisms, her appearance, her very _aura_ is a call and echo of perfection. Little, if anything is out of place; her books, her movies, her dishes, her arms at the table and her smile- they’re all meticulously placed. 

Lance is delighting in finding out what is _wrong_ with her. He looks forward to the day when he can make her weaknesses her strengths. 

When the first sip of tea washes down his throat, something serene instantly washes over Lance. His conversation naturally flows from him from that point on. They chit-chat over tea about her flower shop, his work, their auspicious meeting. He manages to make her laugh, so he counts that at least 5 points in his favor. When she starts… holy crow is she _snorting_? That’s another 10, 15 easy.

Their talk comes so easy, and he is so easily lost. The more Allura speaks the more Lance feels himself falling into her. Falling _for_ her.

He feels like the start of spring all over again.

But they finish the tea pot too soon! Allura isn’t making any move to refill it, so Lance counts this as his welcome’s end. Before he can slink around to put his blazer back on, Allura _like the mid-season mist_ rests her hand atop Lance’s. Her smile is so genuine and radiant, Lance wants to know from where it was borne. Her head? Her heart?

He’s sure he can lay in her smile for a long time. A very long time, indeed.

Allura’s voice is sweet, sugary, fulfilling like nectar when she confesses the enjoyment of his company. She would love to do it again, if he would be willing.

For Allura? He’s already willing to do a lot more than his pride can fathom. He expresses his mutual sentiments instead, not trusting his eloquence at any great extension.

“Wonderful! Oh I’m so glad. I’m still fairly new to the area, and I thought ‘wouldn’t it be so nice to have someone to explore it with?’ Would you do me the honors, Lance?”

This is a woman who knows what she wants.

Silently he prays with his God, his mother and Mary that she wants him, too.

Lance enthusiastically acquiesces, nodding nodding nodding away. He can bring her to all the boutiques his sisters used to drag him to. Maybe he can pick her up something sparkly. They can sit at his favorite cafe, and before the evening gets too late, they can stop by his favorite hole-in-the-wall ice-cream joint and dig at each others’ truths.

He’s got the whole evening already planned out.

“I’ll bring you to all my favorite places, Allura.”

“I’ll look most forward to it, then. I know you’ve still been looking for some way to repay me,  _for whatever reason_ ,” she chuckles. “But you can perhaps take tonight for all your visits to the shop. All the women always appreciate your company. So far, you’re our most loyal customer.”

“Oh, well-“ Lance breathes a laugh. “With all this favor repaying, I might have to start calling you Titania.”

She cheekily asks if that makes him Oberon. He sincerely hopes not.

With a flourished hand to her mouth, she cheers after him as he walks to the door. He holds her gaze as steadily as he can, whispering

“I had a good time tonight."

And she says _so did she._ Then sends him away with a kiss to the cheek, a stroke on his arm and a pat on his bum. _Then_ still has the audacity to waggle her fingers, softly singing _goodnight._

She is going to ruin Lance. That is, if she hasn’t already.

And he hopelessly, helplessly, desperately and _really really_ likes it _._

He can’t even let himself dwell on it too long- the day of their night on the town arrives far too quickly. (Much too slowly.) Lance spends as much time, if not _more_ agonizing over this date’s outfit than their tea party. If not by his words, if not by his wit… if not by his charm nor his grace nor his tact- he'll let his looks be his last defense.

He meets her by his favorite coffeeshop, much to Allura’s poorly-hidden disapproval. She gets an apple cider. He chugs a medium latte to augment his bravery. Rashness. Initiative. They chat and chat and chat. They chat some more. They end up chatting so late, so involved and absorbed in each other that the evening dawns, fully and deeply before they leave. He’s missed his opportunity to buy her something sparkly, but hopefully the stars’ effervescing will be enough.

Lance hates to say it, but he can’t bring himself to think he’s much to look at when he’s next to Allura. It’s quickly becoming alright with him. Because while Allura stargazes, her eyes are the only luster he wants to see.

His thoughts are a little everywhere when he’s thinking about _how bright are Allura’s eyes_ , _how cold is this stupid park bench_ , _should I offer my jacket to the lady_ and _these stars have nothing on her_.

Her voice in an ore slipping into the tempestuous waters of Lance’s thoughts. Softly she starts,

“Sometimes I feel like I belong more to the stars than the Earth.”

And Lance can’t possibly fathom what she means.

Well, she just means whenever she looks at the stars, she’s felt like home. The stars is where she belongs. Like something beautiful is waiting for her there.

Lance… tries to understand. He really does. He’s kind of getting it but… not really.

But she assures him it’s alright if he doesn’t. “It’s not a thought I like to share often.” Her voice just barely rises over the city ambiance. “I share it with you because I can trust you with this. That is what I believe.”

He’s wholly convinced her beliefs are not whimsical tides, but cornerstone foundations. A deep-seated knowledge. He’s _flummoxed._

 _“_ Where is your home, Lance?”

Maybe his home is in the ocean. He’s always loved swimming, taken to water most naturally. Maybe his home is with his friends- he’s made good ones over the years and wouldn’t trade them for the world. Home could be back with all his siblings. His family. Taking care of them as brother, tío, _niñ_ o Lance. 

Maybe his home is in the stars, too. Where his mother is is where he thinks he want to be. If Heaven is amongst the stars, then his home will just have to reside on the other side of eternity. 

 _That_ , Allura understands completely. She silently provokes him to tell her more about his mother. He gladly complies.

He tells her of his mother’s voice. It was always Spanish at home. Always Spanish. Her accent was too thick, she could never say hard “j” sounds correctly. Jump was y _ump,_ just was _yust._ Like her voice, her stature announced herself with pride. After he turned 14 he stood taller and taller than her. At this point, he would tower over her. She could always take him, though. There’s nothing a sharp hand and a hard pressure point in the ear can’t do by the way of humbling.

Lance’s mother’s feistiness was unmatched. Her frankness and candidness were passed to all her children, and she got it from her parents before her. Tactlessness must be genetic.

Her love of colors was legendary. All around the house there was art on the walls, clothes on the banister. She wore colors colors colors boundless on her person at any given time. Colors she gave to her children, her lover. Her life. 

Color was Lance’s mother’s great joy.

That is why spring was her favorite season. All the colors. She liked the colors of spring the best.

“Oh, Lance.” Allura takes a firm grip of his hand. He meets her eyes after a long moment, while she says “I didn’t know. Spring is a beautiful time, isn’t it.”

And Allura is right. As usual.

She asks Lance if he remembers the rose she gave him. He scoffs, how could he forget?

“We call it the ocean song rose.”

Ooh, Lance thinks that’s nice.

“So did I. You seemed like someone that enjoys things to their fullest, which is why I thought that flower especially made such a good gift for you.”

He recalls the fullness of the petals, the circumference of their breach. The precise antiquity of their color. He can easily see why they’re Allura’s favorite.

“You know,” Allura leads. “A gift implies that it’s done out of joy, out of love. Unconditionally. Well, little-conditionally. What I’m trying to say is that you don’t need to keep bending and breaking yourself for this silly ‘repayment’ thing you’re trying to do. It just won’t work. You’re still spinning yourself in circles when you really don’t need to. I appreciate the thought, don’t get me wrong, but-“ she leans precariously ( _tantalizingly_ ) close to Lance’s side. “Your presence at the flower shop is gift enough in itself,” and plants a cool kiss on his cheek.

But how can she lay all that on him and not expect him to want more? A simple peck on the cheek, how does she expect him to sustain? She’s pulled him in her orbit and her pull grows ever stronger. Not wanting her is not an option. Not anymore.

Lance knows she can tell the kiss is coming from miles, lightyears, eons away. Regardless, when his lips settle on hers, he can’t deny the jolt from their closed circuit. Her touch is light, her touch is sweet, her touch is soft, her touch is _electric._

He presses his lips to hers and wants to indulge her. He wants to press into her _melt_ into her _meld_ within her. He wants the thatching of his kiss to fuse against hers and let the kiss’ echo last for days. 

 _He wants to touch but can’t. Let Allura’s hands pull the thorns from his side, he’ll be so good._ He can grow. He can reach. He can stand pretty and flourishing in the garden she cultivates, and she’d snip every imperfection from him. 

He’d be so _good_.

She shares a lingering exhale with him. They pull their hands back to themselves (when had they started moving over each other?), and reclaim their breaths as they calm down. Basking in the frenzied, fresh flush of Allura’s cheeks and lips? Lance thinks that’s just _great._

They walk back together to their apartment. (He can bottle the hazy glow rising from her cheeks. She wants to gather his hands to still their little jitter.) She gives another wispy kiss to his other cheek, meekly bidding him _goodnight._

Before he leaves, she reminds him that he doesn’t need to keep thinking about that bloody gift. Really truly. She means it.

Regardless to Allura’s word, Lance still tangles himself in what to get for Allura. Buying tea for Allura he almost equates the same tier as buying lingerie; the wrong kind of intimate. He moves on from that idea. Coffee, chocolate, jewelry… paper-craft? No. They’re still out.

Maybe… maybe Lance wants to revisit the flower idea.

Allura really listened to him when he talked about his mom. That hasn’t happened in an… embarrassingly long time. He hasn’t been able to feel that level of connection in an embarrassingly long time.

He likes that he can be so honest with her.

What does _Allura_ like?

Well.

Hold the phone.

Allura likes roses!

The next morning after Their Kiss, Lance rips his comforter off him as he jumps out of bed. He slap-dashes his outfit together, grabs a bus for two towns over and finds the most reputable-looking flower shop he can on his random shopping excursion. The unfamiliar door-chime when he strolls through the door only further reminds him of his one, single purpose. 

Wasting no time with perusal, with chit-chat or banter, he hastily implores of the cashier “where are your roses?,” she points, and he finds just what he's looking for.

He places a single rose on the counter with parental gentleness and dexterity. The woman behind the counter asks if he’ll be taking just the one. The seconds _b l e e d_ on as she wraps it for him, but Lance will forgive it this time. He knows not everyone can feel the ripping seconds of True Love at stake.

 **Crashing** through the door of Allura’s shop, he calls a sweeping _hello, ladies!_ and jogs right up to the register. Allura stands behind the counter in all her celestial glory.

Flourishing the flower towards Allura, he jostles it a few times for her to take. (He considers taking a knee.) She plucks it from his hands and brings it up to her face to smell.

“My mother’s favorite flower was tea roses. Really she liked any rose in general, but tea roses were her first pick. Pun intended.”

“Oh, Lance-“

“My gift to you,” he extricates. “How could my presence ever be enough. You in all your,” he waves a hand from her face down to her torso. “All your gorgeousness. I want to be someone that’s enough for you. You’re… God you’re so easy to be good _to_.”

“Lance!”

But he isn’t finished. “My mamí raised me right, and that's why I’m so insistent on paying you back. I have to do her memory proud. I struggled for a long time with what to get you, how to repay you. Flowers were the obvious go-to but,” he waves his arm over his head. “I thought that would be redundant. Then we went star-gazing. Or, you went star-gazing. I was just Allura-gazing.” (Her co-workers scandalized tittering does nothing to deter him.) “I got to tell you something that was weighing on my heart for a while. You don’t know how much I needed that. I don’t even think I know how much I needed that.”

“Lance…” Allura is almost at the verge of tears. She clutches the flower close to her chest.

“In a way, that flower is an extension of myself. I think this gift-giving thing has come full-circle. I, uh. I hope you like it.”

She glances to the flower, to Lance. From Lance, back down to the flower. In a low voice she admits, “ _I love it, Lance.”_ For safekeeping she sets the flower back on the counter. Snatching his collar, leaning over the ledge she kisses him in the middle of the shop. Languid and smooth.

In the back of his mind, Lance hears the rain and thunder of distant applause. He hears the shrill of a ringing whistle. 

All he wants is to kiss and to have and to hold the woman who walks on honey.

When he leaves the shop, it’s like the beginning of spring all over again.

He. He really likes it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I apologize for sacrificing characterization for stylization. Hopefully it isn't too terribly noticeable :')
> 
> Unbeta'd for now, but not to worry! I'll come back later and clean up any loose ends.  
> Cheers!
> 
> For [ Nat!](http://strawberrylovely.tumblr.com%20) Glad you enjoyed sweet pea :*


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